


Gimme a Little Kiss, Will Ya?

by ectothermal



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, M/M, Rape Culture, also some 1920s aesthetic fetishism because i can't control my history boner, and not even like regular fuckboys i'm talkin rich-ass white-ass trust fund fuckboys, au where gellert is played by a competent and age-appropriate actor aka nikolaj coster-waldau, established caregiver/little relationship, fuckboys. just. fuckboys, like three of them to be exact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 21:39:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10602777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectothermal/pseuds/ectothermal
Summary: Credence finds himself against a wall, behind a long row of tables stacked high with refreshments; guests flow in and out of the area, chatting idly as they drink. Credence does what he does best—observes, unnoticed. Inconspicuous. Just another plain little wallflower.This works, for a while; he doesn’t hear anything of particular interest, but it’s enough to hold his attention in Gellert’s absence. A pack of young, college-aged men lingers around the drinks, dripping with trust fund confidence, like they’ve never suffered a consequence in their lives, and they all wear sharply side-parted, slicked-down hair that reminds Credence of Senator Shaw. Their bull session grows louder as the empty champagne flutes begin to cluster on the edge of the table beside them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's probably fairly obvious from the tags but I capital-H Hate Johnny Depp and everything he stands for. I personally replace him with Nikolaj Coster-Waldau so any physical description of Gellert herein will be based on him, but I guess you can imagine whoever you want. It might hurt my feelings a little if you go ahead and imagine Jorble Dorp anyway, though.
> 
> A big, disgusting and heartfelt thank you goes out to [chris9065](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chris9065/), [crality](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crality/), and [chemicalconcerto](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chemicalconcerto) for encouraging me while I wrote this, reassuring me that my obsession with historical accuracy was semi-normal and endearing, and that people might actually want to read this. Also for noticing whenever I used the same adverb twice in one sentence.
> 
> Title taken from the song title "Gimme a Lil' Kiss, Will Ya, Huh?" sung by Jack Smith in 1926.

Upstate New York is still chilly in mid-spring. Credence hasn’t been back to the States in some time, Gellert conducting low-key business across Europe while they waited for MACUSA to slip back into the comfort of normalcy. It’s at once a relief and a nightmare to be back home, but traveling upstate, where the trees grow lush and green and acreage stretches for miles, is a welcome break from the dusty streets of the city.

They rarely attend parties for leisure; Gellert always has a plan in motion, an arrangement to be made, someone’s support to be won. Credence knows his place as the pretty thing on his arm – the curl of his fingers around the cold man’s forearm softens him, humanizes him, and he needs that angle much more frequently than Credence knows he’d care to admit. Opulence abounds inside the estate – whomever Gellert is trying to win over is wealthy, likely old wizarding blood. He has little time for the petty pureblood elitism that he tells Credence is rampant in Europe; he knows himself to be superior. The squabbles beneath him don’t matter. But, as always, Gellert changes his face to suit the occasion – if it’s the promise of purity that this family wants, then purity is what Gellert will promise.

He always chooses Credence’s attire, and tonight they’re dressed to the nines. Gellert prefers to cut a feminine silhouette for him, all sheer fabric and ornate beadwork, but he’s chosen more conservatively for this event. His crisp black suit is well-tailored – though more tightly fitted than any American tailor would dare past, what, ’23? But Gellert had always preferred the slender cut popular in Britain and much of Europe. Credence feels uncomfortably formal, the stiff wool caging him in, the soft crushed velvet of his waistcoat only adding to the heat of the outer layer. He’s grateful that Gellert at least let him forgo a tie, instead allowing him to attach his collar with an unusual silver and stone stud.

“I won’t be long, little one,” Gellert murmurs into Credence’s hair; Credence can tell that he’s unhappy to separate, but he wants this man’s loyalty more than he worries about letting Credence out of his sight. Gellert’s fingers settle around his neck, such a familiar gesture that it happens without hesitance, and he holds Credence’s eyes as his thumb presses the boy’s opal-inlaid collar stud firmly into the hollow of his throat. “Try to be social.”

“Yes, Daddy,” says Credence. The corner of Gellert’s mouth pulls, just a ghost of a self-satisfied smirk, and with a sweep of his jacket, he disappears, slipping fast through the throngs of partygoers.

Credence presses his lips together, smoothing his fingers down the front of his suit jacket; his stomach fills up with nerves in the absence of his daddy’s touch to ground him in this hectic environment. He hovers for a moment, unsure of what to do with himself in such a place – God, it’s much too fancy for his calloused, scarred hands and his stomach that still remembers giving up his only meals to children smaller than him who needed it more.

Credence finds himself against a wall, behind a long row of tables stacked high with refreshments; guests flow in and out of the area, chatting idly as they drink. Credence does what he does best—observes, unnoticed. Inconspicuous. Just another plain little wallflower.

This works, for a while; he doesn’t hear anything of particular interest, but it’s enough to hold his attention in Gellert’s absence. A pack of young, college-aged men lingers around the drinks, dripping with trust fund confidence, like they’ve never suffered a consequence in their lives, and they all wear sharply side-parted, slicked-down hair that reminds Credence of Senator Shaw. Their bull session grows louder as the empty champagne flutes begin to cluster on the edge of the table beside them.

“Harrison, I’m telling you,” the smallest of them laughs, clapping a rough hand on his tall, blond friend’s shoulder, “you’re gonna get yourself decked. That gal’s always flashin’ gold on those stems, she’s a kept bitch for sure.” Harrison, Credence assumes, rolls his eyes.

“Leave it to you to keep your eyes low enough to notice that shit,” he fires back in good humor. They laugh together, the sound aggressive, threatening, like a pack of hyenas. It twists Credence’s stomach.

“Anyway,” continues Harrison, brushing his hand through the air as if to sweep his friends’ concerns away. His smile grows as the thought occurs to him, as it tumbles out of his mouth, and Credence recognizes the light playing in his eyes; he’s watched cruelty and self-satisfaction meld together in Gellert’s eyes so many times that he doesn’t know how he couldn’t. “If the broad’s old man lets her run around looking like that, he must want what she’s got coming.” Credence realizes, very suddenly, that he doesn’t want to be here anymore. He forces his attention away, scanning the party to see if he can find Gellert, if he’s done with his business, if he can return to the safety blanket of his daddy’s arm around his waist.

Three figures move into Credence’s periphery, and his gut plummets. One of them—Harrison, the tall one, the leader of the pack—braces an arm against the wall next to Credence’s head, boxing him in.

“Hey, pretty boy,” he says, tone caught somewhere between casual and accusatory, “we ain’t seen you around here before. Have we, guys?” The others chime in in agreement so quickly that it almost makes Credence scoff, but he remains silent, staring straight ahead into the party, still on the lookout for Gellert. He doesn’t spare them a glance, hoping they’ll lose interest without his acknowledgement. His daddy’s voice echoes in his head, however, reminding him to be social, and his resolve to ignore them falters; but at the same time, pinpricks are crawling up his neck. His throat is tight with panic; Harrison pushes his shoulder back against the wall when he tries to leave, and he holds him there, leaning in, smile wide and toothy like a shark.

“You from around here?” the heavier-set of them asks, leaning into Credence’s opposite side, and Credence curtly shakes his head – maybe if they realize they don’t know him, they’ll leave. But the boy presses: “What University do you go to, honey?” Credence shakes his head again, and the shorter of them shoves his friend’s shoulder.

“Shut up, Langley,” he says, but he keeps his eyes on Credence. Credence casts his eyes low, drawing a heavy, shaky breath through his mouth. “But you know you can’t get by on just your looks, pretty boy. Don’t you?” Credence shakes his head once more, shrinking back against the wall, gaze unfocused somewhere near his toes, vision swimming with the threat of tears as the semi-circle of boys surrounding him laughs in unison.

“Have some champagne, sweetheart, lighten up a little,” says Harrison, raising his flute to tip it against Credence’s lips; Credence yanks his head to the side, lips clamped firmly between his teeth. Harrison, unfazed, lets the alcohol spill over Credence’s cheek and down his throat. “Oops,” he says, his tone all but acknowledging that he’d made no accident at all, and he presses his fingers up Credence’s throat, catching the sticky flow of alcohol before it can soak into his collar and smoothing it uncomfortably into his skin.

“How come you won’t talk to us, huh, baby?” he asks. “You too good for us, sweetheart?”

“Maybe he can’t talk, Harry,” the short one supplies.

“Mm, well. You know what that means, don’t you, Julian?” Harrison asks, turning to his friend only for a moment before leaning in even closer to Credence; his hot alcohol breath feels sticky on his face. Credence chokes on his breath, sobbing it out in spite of himself. “If he can’t talk, he can’t cry for help, can he?”

Credence can feel himself bursting at the seams. Harrison’s hands, palms sweaty from the warm, champagne-bubbly buzz he’s riding, slip underneath Credence’s suit jacket to clutch firmly at his hips. It leaves Credence’s skin feeling grimy, wet, crawling. If he was frozen before, he’s forgotten the feeling now; he fights, shoving Harrison’s arms, his chest, head tipped back against the wall to keep as much distance between them as he can. He fights with himself as much as he fights Harrison, as much as he fights his friends who join in to grab Credence’s wrists, leaving him exposed. Helpless. No – not helpless. Credence knows he is never truly helpless, not since Gellert showed him how to harness the power he holds inside of him. But his last resort, the obscurus, the dark storm that rages inside him that his daddy adores so much – that’s not an option. Not here.

“Leg it, boys!” a firm woman’s voice cuts through the mounting panic drowning Credence, waterlogging his chest and his head. She is furious, Credence can see it in her eyes, in the way her face is set in angry stone.

“Aw, come on, we were just havin’ a little fun,” says Julian, but Credence tugs his wrists tightly to his chest once they’re distracted, gasping and rocking, face wet; the woman looks between them and him, unconvinced.

“Scram,” she snarls, shoving her way in between Harrison and Credence, punctuating the word with a rough shove to Harrison’s shoulder.

“Wet fucking blanket,” mutters Harrison, nodding to his friends to follow him as he stalks off into the ballroom. As soon as they’re gone, the girl whips around, yanking a silk handkerchief from the neckline of her dress – Credence doesn’t want to think about where she’d been keeping it – to dab at his stricken, tear-streaked face.

“I told pops not to invite them,” she says, gently plucking an eyelash from Credence’s cheek. “They’re nothing but trouble, those frat boys. Are you alright, sweetheart?”

“Daddy,” Credence gasps, struggling to speak through his panic, through the tight knot that his fear has tied in his throat. “Please, I need. Where is Daddy?” He clutches her hands as she offers them to him, her pretty handkerchief crushed and wrinkling between their iron grip on each other.

“Okay, honey. We’ll find your pops. What’s he look like?”

“Tall and kind of scary,” chokes Credence – he doesn’t have it in him to correct her.

They wind past countless bodies, the girl’s hands dainty yet firm on his shoulders, her low heels clicking sure and steady on the marble tile. Credence is grateful for the cadence, giving him something to focus on even as his feet drag and catch as she guides him.

The sweep of a black coat emerging from a door in front of them sparks recognition in Credence’s spasming mind, drawing a sharp gasp into his chest as he stops dead in his tracks; the girl gently collides with his back with a soft _oof_.

“Daddy,” he croaks, shaking fingers reaching out as Gellert’s eyes find him, brow merging in suspicion even as he opens an arm to Credence.

“What is this, Credence?” he asks, low, ducking his head to murmur into his baby’s hair as Credence tucks his face into his neck.

“She helped me,” says Credence, voice unsteady as fresh tears spring to his eyes in relief to be back in familiar, protective arms. “They wouldn’t leave me alone.” Gellert’s fingers tighten around his waist, and he nods politely to Credence’s savior.

“Thank you,” he says. “Excuse us.” Credence glances back at her, giving a small, grateful smile as she nods politely in return, hands crossed over each other in front of her body. He can feel her eyes on them as Gellert pulls him away.

“Who were they, Credence? Show me,” murmurs Gellert, a new fire, a dangerous growl tinting his cheerful Scandinavian accent. It’s not hard to pick Harrison and his friends out of the crowd – always moving as a pack, predatory – and Credence barely has to scan the ballroom before pointing.

“There,” he says, voice weak and wavering. “Those three.” Gellert pauses for a moment, eyes narrowing and throat giving a rumbling, contemplative hum, before he turns, pulling Credence with him towards a door that leads out to the estate’s gardens.

“Let’s take a walk, little one,” he says; Credence has been by Gellert’s side long enough now to recognize what his daddy sounds like with a plan formulating in his ever-working mind. He follows, chest loosening and breath coming easier with the knowledge that his daddy intends to do something about what was done to him.

The gardens are expansive, a lavish and labyrinthine display of wealth and status, and Gellert leads Credence deep into the maze. When he is satisfied with their isolation, he sits Credence, both hands on his shoulders, upon a cold stone bench, ornately carved along the edges with twisted tendrils of ivy. It’s a familiar gesture, usually with a much different context – a context that catches Credence’s breath as he tips his head back to look up at his daddy.

“Credence,” says Gellert, reverent, his knuckle bumping gently under the boy’s chin and trailing back and down his throat, “my pretty little thing. Everybody wants a taste, hmm?” The implication of the thought runs a shiver through Credence.

“But you belong to me, don’t you, little one?” he continues, softly yet somehow more intense, urgent and with conviction. He leans in closer to watch Credence’s eyes, to seek truth in them.

“Yes,” Credence answers, locked onto the darkness behind the blue-grey steel of Gellert’s.

“Then it is time to teach these boys a lesson,” Gellert murmurs, thumb tracing possessively over Credence’s bottom lip, “about what happens to those who try to take what is mine.” He smiles, dangerous and cruel; Credence smiles in return, the mirror expression slowly curling across his mouth.

“Here is what I need you to do.” Gellert sits beside Credence, an arm wrapped around his back as he leans in close to speak softly into his ear and relay his plan.

⸻

Credence’s fingers, calm and nimble, smooth the wrinkles out of his suit jacket before he steps inside the ballroom. With Gellert’s instructions and confidence behind him, his spine straightens, his chin lifts, and his eyes darken; he enters the party a different person than he left it. Harrison and his pack are even easier to spot than before – they haven’t stopped drinking since they arrived, and they grow louder and more belligerent as the night wears on. Most of the attendees have begun to avoid them, creating an almost comical perimeter of empty space around the three of them. Credence doesn’t hesitate; his daddy is waiting on him, out in the gardens. His fingertips light on Julian’s elbow, making him start and turn.

“Thought you didn’t want nothin’ to do with us, pretty boy,” he slurs, a sloppy half-smile dawning on his face as Credence grants him a breathy laugh. He eyes Harrison, dark with intent, before he speaks.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, forcing breath through his naturally crackling voice, the way he’s watched pretty girls speak to men when they want something. “You’re just so handsome, all of you – I was too nervous to speak up.” This seems to please them, to soothe their delicately developed egos, and Credence’s smile sharpens.

“Do you wanna get some air?” he asks, laughing again as he’s met with three silent nods. “Follow me,” he says, hushed, like it’s a secret meant just for them.

The gardens are lit only by what escapes the large windows of the estate; it seems there’s a light on in every room. It cuts eerie shadows in front of them, their bodies and each blade of grass casting hard-edged, surreal silhouettes as they walk past taller and taller hedges. Credence retraces the winding path his daddy took him down before, his thin fingers brushing along the foliage as he glances back at the boys with a coy smirk curling the corners of his mouth. He can feel impatient hands reaching for his arms, his waist, his ass – he slips just out of reach, twisting backwards to whisper “not yet” before continuing down the path.

The farther out onto the grounds they go, the hedges become too high to see over, and the maze becomes harder to navigate as the light thins out. It’s quiet, too, just the bassy murmur of the music and the hundreds of people talking making it past the insulation of the greenery.

Gellert is hidden when they finally come upon the spot where Credence left him; the area crackles with power, the obscurus rumbling beneath Credence’s skin upon meeting like energy. The boys don’t seem to notice. Credence stops near the bench, a moment of quiet passing before Harrison wraps his hands around his slight upper arms, yanking him around to pull him close to his chest.

“You done teasing yet, pretty boy?” he says, grip bruising and voice dropped to a low growl. Panic spikes in Credence’s chest again, but only briefly; out here, with Gellert nearby and a plan set in motion, he is finally, truly in control.

“What’s the matter, Harrison?” he says, pushing his hands against his chest and yanking his shoulders back to try and free himself. “Don’t you have more fun when they fight back?” Without warning, he brings his knee up as hard as he can, a snarl punctuating his effort and baring his teeth as Harrison drops to his knees, both hands cupped around himself and the breath knocked right out of his lungs.

“What’s the _matter_ , Harrison?” Credence is wild, unstable, ready to vibrate out of his skin; the fear apparent in all three boys fuels him as he leans in close. “You like taking, don’t you? _Take_ it. Try. See what happens.”

Julian falls, shoes slipping on the dew-damp grass in his haste; his wail cuts over the heavy thud of his body meeting the ground, and he continues to scramble backwards on his hands until he is stopped – all three of them drag forward to rest on their knees in a line, hands pinned behind their backs. Credence stands, catching the final curl of Gellert’s fingers performing his wandless magic in his periphery as he takes his place beside his daddy. Gellert draws his fingers through Credence’s hair and down the back of his neck, languid and possessive all at once.

“Some privacy,” he says, calmly, drawing his wand to sweep in a casual arc over his head; Credence can just barely hear the soft buzz of the soundproof barrier Gellert casts around them, familiar with field of energy from how often they’d required the secrecy it afforded. “Now, Credence,” he continues, brushing a hand down his sharp cheek to draw his head to face him, “have patience, little one. You will have your revenge, but first – a lesson, hmm?” Credence tips into Gellert’s work-worn hand; he swears he can almost feel vibration where their skin meets, the power they each contain calling out for each other.

“Yes, Daddy,” says Credence, eyes locked with Gellert’s; Gellert smiles, dangerous and cruel, but his eyes are full of affection.

“Sit, Credence,” he says, guiding him with just a finger under his chin to sit upon the bench this time, a different intimacy than the rough, firm handling he’d used earlier.

“Now,” he says, turning to face the boys, immobile on their knees in a line in front of them. He slips out of his long coat, lazily flicking his wrist to lay it on the bench next to Credence. “It is time you learned not to touch what doesn’t belong to you.”

Gellert’s wand – the Elder Wand, he told Credence once, the most powerful wand in existence (and who is more deserving than Gellert, who so purely adores and respects power) – is knotted, gnarled and mean. The porous surface of the wood reminds Credence of walnut shells, makes him uncomfortable to look at. Gellert is not one for showy magic, either, has no use for form without function, but Credence finds it beautiful nonetheless, electric blue light and screams of anguish punctuating the roll of muscles in his daddy’s forearms, tense, coiled like a weapon. This is something Credence knows intimately, the anticipation, the readiness to fight, to not only survive but to _hurt_. He stands, looking down upon the boys, contorted in pain atop the damp grass, dew and their own tears staining their expensive suits. He touches Gellert’s elbow, and Gellert lifts the curse with an upward tug of his wrist.

“They thought I couldn’t talk, Daddy,” he says, conversationally, watching their faces coldly as they gasp through the echoes of the cruciatus curse, “and do you know what this one said?” he tips his head towards Harrison, glancing aside to meet Gellert’s eyes before staring Harrison down.

“He said, ‘if he can’t talk, then he can’t cry for help.’” Credence feels the rumble of anger waking up in his daddy before it makes it to the surface, and he steps back to allow it to burst forth, a smug smile settling across his mouth. Gellert snarls, lifting a knee to drive his heel down into Harrison’s chest, the force and his sturdy weight behind it producing a sickening – _satisfying_ – crack. The scream that follows is broken, tearing through Harrison’s throat in a high, clipped-off, pathetic tone. He watches the pain spread, apparent on his face – every breath, every little movement spreading fire through his broken ribs.

Credence laughs – softly at first, but it grows, deep and sandpapery and cruel. It draws a surprised but pleased glance from Gellert as he smooths his hair back into place.

“Come now, little one,” he says, a low, mirthful chuckle slipping past his words, “do show him some compassion, hmm? Some mercy, perhaps.” Credence considers the command – not exactly a command, a suggestion. His daddy watches him expectantly, eyebrows lifted.

“I don’t think I want to,” says Credence, voice cold, almost indifferent; a wholly different reflection of the last time he uttered the words. He is still for just a moment, eyes slipping shut as he breathes into the release of the obscurus.

Gellert steps back, satisfied, slipping his wand into the holster attached to his waistcoat to watch Credence harness, control the vengeance that has never been far from the boy’s fingertips, from his heart. How the boy has grown under his guidance – the obscurus roils, folding in on itself, deep orange embers sparking in the depths of the impossible mass. Credence hardly takes time to adjust to the change, but he hesitates, watching the horror build in the eyes of the boys who wronged him. Harrison, still on his back and gasping for air – he cries, pitifully, noisy and messy, distorting his handsome, sharp features into something childish and vulnerable. The obscurus – Credence – makes a deep, warped and ominous sound that Gellert recognizes to be a laugh before he swoops down, inky tendrils curling around Harrison’s broken torso. Credence lifts him into the air, just so the toes of his fine leather shoes brush over the ends of the grass.

He is normally efficient, quick – his violence either an act of passion or an order to be carried out. But he savors this – this new sensation of having someone tremble in his grasp, to be afraid of his touch the way they made him fear theirs.

Credence’s face emerges from the mass, hovering close to Harrison’s ear, speaking just above his panicked whimpers and pleas. A slender hand caresses too tenderly under Harrison’s chin, pulling his gaze towards Credence’s white, hollow eyes.

“You know, if your daddy lets you run around acting like this, surely he must know you had it coming,” says Credence, his light, crackling voice mocking Harrison’s earlier words, tone haunting under the rush and hum of the cloud shifting around him. He lets a beat pass – then the obscurus constricts, crushing Harrison’s bones shoulder to hip. Underneath the sound, the grind and crack and crunch of all the breakage at once, Julian’s horrified cry rings out, like he can’t believe what he’s just seen; Langley retches, trembling as he throws up into his own lap. Harrison’s body hangs in the lattice of the tendrils, feet twitching as he slowly suffocates inside his collapsed chest.

Credence tosses the body carelessly, Harrison’s head bouncing off the edge of the stone bench with a disturbing, hollow sound, and the obscurus swirls beside his daddy, graceful as he sinks into his natural form. Gellert slips his arm around Credence’s slender waist once more, leaning in closely to hum his approval in his baby’s ear: “Well done, little one,” he murmurs before addressing the remaining boys.

“I trust you’ve learned your lesson this evening,” he says, voice suddenly cold and aloof where it had just been warm and full of pride. Julian simply sobs, choking as he stares at the blood leaking into the grass from Harrison’s mangled corpse, trickling slowly, thick and congealing already, from his slack mouth. He looks lost, destroyed – a follower by nature, directionless without his leader.

“Get the fuck out,” Gellert dismisses, giving each of them a simple order to follow; his hand flicks sharply upward to release them from their bonds. The boys scramble to their feet, Langley slipping on his own vomit in his hurry to escape. Credence watches them go, scoffing softly as they collide with the hedges in their wake. In the newfound solitude, Gellert turns to Credence, both hands lifting to tenderly cup his jaw.

“Look how well you’re coming along, Credence,” he praises, steely eyes full of new hunger. Thick fingers glide down his neck, his daddy’s gaze trailing after them as he straightens and smooths down Credence’s lapels. “You’ve made something so beautiful out of what that muggle did to you,” the man muses, “a true measure of wizardkind’s superiority even in oppression, hmm, _min lille en_?” Gellert separates from Credence for only a moment, straightening his shirt sleeves and summoning his coat to him from where it lay, almost forgotten on the bench. It slips up his arms in one fluid motion, and he shrugs his shoulders once to let its weight fall naturally. Satisfied, he draws Credence close, cradling his head into the curve of his shoulder; it’s a familiar gesture that Credence sinks into, melting as he tucks his face close to the heat of Gellert’s neck, as he slips his chilled fingers inside his daddy’s heavy wool coat.

“I think you deserve a reward, little one,” the man says, hushed as his lips brush Credence’s ear, his voice more breath and rumble than it is timbre, “don’t you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he apparates, the two of them pressed together as they disappear into a single point with a considerable _pop_.

Harrison lies forgotten on the cold ground, glassy eyes staring through the bent indents of grass before his body; the footprints disappear as each blade, resilient, straightens toward the dawning sun once more.


End file.
